


The Scars We Have

by quagmires



Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: AU in which things are a little worse than they are in the books, Child Abuse, Child Marriage, Gen, Just abuse in general, idk what to tell you other than this isn't very happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-18
Updated: 2018-09-18
Packaged: 2019-07-13 22:49:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16027613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quagmires/pseuds/quagmires
Summary: She felt Klaus’ hand go limp atop hers. His chest rose, then fell, then stopped entirely.





	The Scars We Have

**Author's Note:**

  * For [closedcartridge](https://archiveofourown.org/users/closedcartridge/gifts).



> my friend and i concocted a terrible, horrible AU in which the marriage plans don't fall through and they're still stuck with Olaf don't @ me

There was a stab of fear in Violet Baudelaire’s chest about as sharp as the knife Count Olaf held to her brother’s neck. This was nothing new: in the almost two years they’d been trapped in this prison of a home, threats were as much of a daily routine as the chores they were forced to do. But when her siblings’ lives were put on the line, Violet still felt that familiar, icy trickle of dread. Her heart plummeted into her stomach, her face grew pale, and she stood still as a statue while she waited for the outcome, in fear of even the slightest movement setting off a new wave of rage in this man she was married to.

She would never deign to refer to him as her ‘husband’, though that was, regrettably, what he was. Nobody should have a husband at sixteen, she often found herself thinking. And nobody should ever have to fear for their lives and the lives of their brother and sister, no matter their age.

Today’s bout of violence had seemingly been caused by the sunrise — that is to say, she had no idea when it began or what the trigger was. Therefore she hadn’t a clue of what could settle the vile man down; not when he slammed her against the wall so hard her head spun, not when he aimed a kick at Sunny for no reason at all, and not when he snatched up the knife she’d just finished cleaning and held it against Klaus’ throat.

Years and years would pass and she’d never know the exact cause for this particular outburst. Her only palpable theory was that it was to remind her that her guard should never be down; that with every threat that amounted to nothing they were only taking another step closer to one Olaf followed through with. And apparently Klaus had been teetering dangerously on that precipice for a while.

There was a moment, a moment which felt like a lifetime, in which nothing happened. The two siblings stared at each other, wide-eyed and speechless, the only sound between them being the slice of steel through skin. It was a sharp sound, one that sounded as thin and clean as the cut it left. Then blood welled up to the surface of the open wound, like a paper cut maximized and amplified beyond belief. Klaus coughed, but it sounded more like a sputter. Blood painted his lips and as he shakily tried to kneel on the ground, grasping at his neck, all Violet could think was that blood in his mouth means blood in his airways means a perforated windpipe means no oxygen means—

She immediately attempted to rush to his side, but found herself jumping back, like they were attached to two very strong magnets of opposite polarities. It took her a moment to register the hand in her hair (which she was never allowed to wear up anymore), yanking at her scalp and keeping her away. Violet kicked and shrieked and thrashed despite the painful pulling at her hair, prepared to fight tooth and nail to get to her brother. Her vision spun as she was swiveled around to face the man who kept them all here. He seemed very pleased with himself, but incredibly angry at her.

“I thought I told you I wanted this kitchen spotless,” he snarled, shaking Violet by the hair and holding her so close she could smell the whiskey and tobacco on his breath. It was a disgusting smell, but she was used to it by now. And it wasn’t quite as terrible as the smell of blood.

The oldest Baudelaire, now nearly sixteen, forced herself to stop struggling. Tears welled up to her eyes and spilled over, much like the blood pooling out of Klaus’ neck. Even after all this time, the only eye contact she could make with Count Olaf was with the one tattooed on his left ankle. “I did! I did!” she cried, “I scrubbed the dishes, dusted the surfaces, polished the floors—“

Her vision lurched again, this time in a linear direction. Count Olaf dragged her across the kitchen, then sneered as he turned Violet to face the growing mess of blood that was her brother. “You missed a spot, my dear.”

With that he all but dropped her on top of Klaus. Violet immediately scrambled to replace his hands with her own, applying adequate pressure to the cut across his neck to at least stem the bleeding enough to give her time to think. But thinking wouldn’t come easy, not with the panic setting in full swing and nothing to tie her hair up with.

A searing pain blossomed in her head and chest rather suddenly, enough to cause a strangled cry. Olaf, still standing above them both and watching as if it were sport, aimed a swift kick into Violet’s ribs. The unexpected force of it had no doubt broken a few, and the momentum slammed her temple into the sharp corner of the mahogany table. Then, without another word, he stepped over the mess that he’d made and left the room, calm as could be.

Violet knew she was in bad shape. The best breaths she could take were shallow and wheezy, her vision was now spotty and spinning even without Olaf pulling her around like a rag doll. But she also knew she wasn’t anywhere near as bad as Klaus was. She willed herself to focus on her hands, which were stained and sticky from the warm blood bubbling up through her fingers. No matter how much pressure she applied, it didn’t seem to be enough. Klaus was going to bleed out, right here in this kitchen. The kitchen they’d cooked puttanesca sauce in two years ago, which had led to a bruise on his face that didn’t go down for weeks. The same kitchen where he’d injured himself badly with a falling meat hook, and she’d braved a week of violet beatings to steal a bottle of vodka to disinfect it with. She had always, always done her best to look after him and Sunny, but none of that would matter if she let him die right now.

“Just hold on,” she sniffled, hiccoughing. Violet tried to look around for something that could be of use, but the slightest movement made her feel like she was wearing the kaleidoscope glasses she’d invented when she was seven. The only thing she could think of was to tear the hem of the dress she wore. It was no great loss, it was hideous and Olaf made her wear it, which was all the more reason to hate it. But it was already soaked in blood, and what good would it do anyway? She needed something better than that — something useful.

“Help!” she screeched at the top of her lungs. What else could she do but scream herself hoarse until somebody rushed to her aid? Her once bright and inventive mind was failing her, and it was all she could do. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. For a passer-by. A neighbor. Even a henchperson. But nobody came. Nobody was going to help her.

Klaus was in shock. His eyes were wide ad glassy, his face was pale, he was barely moving. He stared up at Violet, taking shallow breaths like she was, barely moving otherwise. She could barely see him through her concussion and her tears. He was just a blur to her — was he seeing her the same way? Slowly she felt one of his hands, which was also warm and sticky with blood, move up to cover her own. Not to help, just for comfort.

“You...You can’t leave me,” Violet whispered, starting to sob. She said she’d look after him — she promised. “I can’t do this alone. Please.”

It felt like the more she pleaded with him to stay, the more blood gushed through her fingers. Was the blood flow increasing, or were her hands getting weaker? Maybe it was both? Her vision was starting to flicker, her breathing growing more and more labored. Klaus’ condition deteriorated in much the same style. In this moment they were intrinsically connected, sharing one finite source of life like a candle burning at both ends. The wick was running short and as the flame dimmed, they mirrored each other perfectly.

Violet just wished she could die too.

Instead she felt Klaus’ hand go limp atop hers. His chest rose, then fell, then stopped entirely. His eyes remained open, glassy and staring off into the distance behind blood-smudged glasses. And Violet was left utterly alone.

 

That was always the point that she woke up, thrashing and squealing and sobbing loudly. Her hands were still wet, but from sweat rather than blood. Breaths were taken in desperate gasps, ribs that had long since healed now allowing that luxury. Violet was much like she was in her dream: panicked, small, helpless.

But when awake, she was far from alone.

Klaus was already at her bedside, switching on the lamp to illuminate the terrifying darkness. He looked concerned — he was concerned — but he knew better than to embrace his sister without asking. It would only make things worse.

Violet took one look at her brother, alive and well, and launched herself into his arms. She clung to his shoulders, which were much broader than they had been when they lived in that horrible house. Even if that had been a long time ago, the traumatic and unfortunate events of their formative years still haunted them.

“You don’t need to speak,” he assured her. It was only then that she realized she’d been stammering, teeth chattering as she tried to explain herself. She simply bowed her head solemnly and nodded. Her shoulders still shook, tears dribbling down her cheeks. Klaus waited, patient as always, for her to tell him about the night terror. He knew she would explain, whether she talked again tonight or not.

A few long moments passed where the only sound in the room was shaky breathing and fearful whimpers. Then Violet pulled herself out of the hug, and wordlessly pointed to the scar running across Klaus’ neck.

“I’m okay,” he assured her, but his hand went up to run across the jagged scar tissue anyway. Klaus looked blank for a moment, briefly caught up in the memory of that incident too. “You’re okay too, Violet. We’re alive.”

Sometimes that felt hard to believe, for the both of them. They had too many scars to count, too many bones that hadn’t set perfect and too many ghosts haunting them. Scars were a reminder that they were alive, just as they were also horribly persistent reminders of everything they went through just to get here. The mere thought drew both pairs of eyes down to Violet’s left hand. Where most married people would expect to see a wedding band was instead a discolored ring of branded skin wrapped around her fourth finger. Even long after their escape from that horrible man and his horrible house, it remained. It was the scar she hated the most.

Klaus detested it too. Even after every horrid thing that man had done to them, he’d go through it all again if it meant removing that one blemish from his sister’s finger.

“Will I stay?” he asked, to which he received an appreciative nod. Klaus stood and briefly left the bedside to retrieve his own pillow from the other side of the room. Halfway back, a creak from the bedroom door caught his attention. He squinted in the darkness, without his glasses, before giving a strained smile to the young girl in the doorway who peeked in curiously. Klaus beckoned her in, and Sunny slipped into the room as quiet as a mouse.

She knew the routine like the back of her hand: crawl up into bed, curl herself snugly between her two older siblings, and go back to sleep. Even at age six, she fit into the cradle of Violet’s arm perfectly. It was the closest Sunny would ever come to knowing a mother. And it was the closest Violet would ever come to having a daughter.

Klaus lying down beside them both completed it all. It was a sleeping position they all knew well: Sunny in the middle, her sister’s arm around her and her brother’s hand holding her own — both Violet and Klaus with the tips of their noses pressed into her blonde curls, and their foreheads leaned against one another. So close they could all feel each other’s heartbeats. Feel each other breathing. A reminder, much like all the scars, that they were still alive.


End file.
